


Lovely

by LeashedDemons



Category: NCIS
Genre: F/M, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Implied/Referenced Domestic Violence, Older Man/Younger Woman, Soft Gibbs
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-27
Updated: 2021-02-27
Packaged: 2021-03-18 10:34:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29732547
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LeashedDemons/pseuds/LeashedDemons
Summary: A woman turns up on Gibbs' doorstep during a rain storm, soaking wet and bruised. She stays the night and what he only expected to be an acquaintance becomes a valuable relationship, one that he's willing to kill for.*HONESTLY, this is just a fic of love for Gibbs*
Relationships: Jethro Gibbs & Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 1
Kudos: 15





	1. Open Door Policy

He didn’t often have visitors, even from those who knew him, so when there was a hurried knock on the door, he grew suspicious. Soft music was playing on the radio and he was just about to head to the basement to work on his boat for the evening, a glass of bourbon in hand, but paused immediately at the rap on the door. He briefly considered if he’d been expecting visitors and upon deciding he hadn’t been, he set the glass down and carefully strode over to the door.

He peeked through the window, seeing a blurry figure through the rain streaking down the glass. It was a woman, soaked to the bone, with a head of dirty blonde hair pushed back from her face. He squinted past the rain droplets and she turned her head to look down the road, letting him see a purple splotch on the side of her face, a fresh cut just beneath it on her cheek.

“H-Hello? Please! I...I just need to call someone!” She glances down the street again, wrapping her arms around herself and he grabs the doorknob, throwing the door open. Her head swivels, light green eyes meeting his. He recognizes the look in them, having seen it many times before – that deer in headlights look of someone made to feel like prey fearing everyone as a predator. “U-uh, hi, I…”

“Need to call someone.” He finishes, stepping aside so that she can enter as he gestures. She waits for a moment, looking between him and the open space, trying to determine if there was a threat. Deciding she’s safe, she shuffles in quickly and quietly, reminding him of a mouse. He shuts the door gentler than he usually would. “You drink coffee?”

She turns and in this light, he can see her better. She’s shaking, teeth clattering a little and he can clearly see a dark bruise marring the side of her face and the cut just beneath it – a bruise he knows the cause of. Still, he’s NCIS, not a marriage counselor and the other party isn’t present either. He starts to head for the kitchen – after all, whether she says yes or not, he’s going to make some.

“Oh, u-uh...yeah, but...you don’t have to give me any. I just need…” She follows after him, her sneakers squeaking on the floor as she does so, stopping in the doorway as she clings to herself. He turns on the pot, turning and leaning against the counter.

“Yeah. To call someone, I heard ya.” He says, crossing the kitchen and grabbing his cellphone. He held it out to her and she cautiously took it, small shaking fingers folding around the flip-phone. She nods and he turns away, finding the glass of bourbon he’d abandoned when she’d first knocked. He listens as she flips open the phone, dialing a number and presses it to her ear. He picks up on the ring, taking a sip of his bourbon. It continues to ring, _and ring_ and _ring_ as she nervously taps her foot. It goes to voicemail.

“U-uh...I’m sorry, I-I just need to call a cab.” She says, hanging up. “Do you have a phone book?”

The words surprise him, mostly because he didn’t expect someone so _young_ to know about a phone book, let alone ask for one. What happened to the intelligent phones? Did she not have one? The again, she was utterly soaked from the storm outside and if she had a phone, it was probably ruined. He raises his eyebrows, setting down his glass.

“I do.” He says and her expression brightens. “Dunno if it’ll help. Cabs aren’t running this late.”

It was almost ten and _most_ cabs weren’t running. The ones that were would cost her an arm and a leg and probably a little more. By the looks of her, she couldn’t afford a cheap coffee. Speaking of coffee, the pot he’d turned on was done and he stands, turning, removing two mugs and pouring coffee into them.

“Cream? Sugar?” He asks. Though he drinks his black, he _did_ keep cream around for the rare visitor here and there, just in case.

“U-uh.” She slowly sets his phone down, but doesn’t sit. Just standing in his kitchen, utterly soaked. It’s almost comical, but he keeps any laughter to himself. “Cream.”

He takes the cream out of the fridge, sets it down on the table along-with her cup, looking at her then at the cream. She takes the cue and pours some cream into the cup, stirs it with her finger before taking it in her cold hands and slowly sipping it. He smiles a little, though it fades as she turns to look around the small house, her bruise once again finding it’s way into his sight.

“What happened to your face?” He asks, turning from her to grab his own mug and take a drink from it. The atmosphere noticeably shifts and he turns, noticing that she was visibly uncomfortable, tucking a loose strand behind her ear. She shrinks behind the cup, which she rubs her lips against, as she tries to appear smaller. He frowns at this. It’s obvious she doesn’t want to answer, so he shifts his approach. “You got someone else you can call? A friend? Relative?”

She shakes her head as she walks into his living room, almost as if in a daze. She leaves a trail of dripping water behind her and he makes a mental note to clean that later, following after her. She stops just before the rug on the floor.

“No.” She says, turning slowly, shoulders visibly slumping. He takes in her clothes as she looks at him, doing the same – she’s wearing a dark blue cable-knit underneath a cropped denim jacket and a pair of light blue skinny Levi’s. Her dark brown boots are dripping with water and stop just below her knee. He squints a little closer and sees a bit of blood on her jacket.

“I have a spare bedroom.” He offers. He knows he isn’t a marriage counselor, but he can’t just let this woman go back out into the storm, especially not with a bruise the size of a baseball on the side of her face. She seems surprised by the suggestion, and he notices a subtle sign of fear in her expression. He sets his mug down and reaches into his back pocket. He withdraws his I.D. and flips it open for her, holding it out for her to take. “Jethro Gibbs, NCIS...you can trust me.”

She looks down at the I.D. a bit incredulously, but it seems to calm any fears or anxieties she had and she just nodded in silent acquiescence. He returned his I.D. to his back pocket and grabbed his mug again, taking another sip.

“You can sit, ‘y know.” He says, gesturing to the couch. He’s sure she doesn’t want to ruin his couch, but it’s just water. It’ll dry. She hears him and glances at the couch before glancing down at her dripping state. “It’s water. Sit down.”

She sits down on the couch at his command, even though he didn’t mean to be commanding. Sometimes, he slipped back into his military training with people he shouldn’t. She sits on the very edge, barely upon the cushion and he frowns a little at this but doesn’t say anything. He sits on the chair across from her, holding his mug in his hands.

She doesn’t meet his eyes, staring down at the cup in her hands like it holds the answers to the universe. Her fingertips drum idly on it’s surface before she takes another sip, still not meeting his gaze.

“Thank you.”

“It’s fine.” He replies briskly. “There’s a shower too; you’re welcome to that. I can drop you off wherever you need in the morning.”

“T-that’s really not necessary.” She stutters but stops at the focused look in his eyes and just nods.

“I got some ice, too, for that bruise.” He stands and goes back into the kitchen, retrieving some ice from his freezer and putting it in a thin rag before returning to where she remained on the couch. He bent a knee and brought the ice to the side of her face. She flinched at first, only confirming what he’d initially suspected, but let him apply the ice to the worsening bruise.

“T-thanks.” She says. With their proximity, he can clearly see that her cut needs some treatment. Likely just some cleaning and a bandage, but still, it was going to be necessary.

“Here, hold this.” He says, clasping her hand and placing it over the rag to hold it. She does as he asks and he leaves once more to the kitchen, returning with his first aid kit, rag and his bourbon. She protests upon seeing the kit, but she goes quiet with just one look from him. “Move the ice. That cut needs cleaning.”

Her hand falls into her lap and she pushes her hair back, giving him ample room to work with. He pops open the kit as he sits on the edge of the coffee table, removing the Neosporin and a band-aid. He takes the rag and dunks it in his bourbon before gently taking her face and holding it still as he dabbed at the cut, clearing away the dried blood from it.

He frowns – the cut is about four inches wide, correlating perfectly with a punch from someone wearing a ring or jewelry of some kind. Once it’s clean, he sets the rag down beside him and pops the cap on the neosporin, squirting some onto the skin of her battered cheek. Then, he takes a bandaid and peels it, carefully applying it to the split skin.

“There.” He says, gathering the supplies and returning them to the kitchen. When he returned, she was softly touching the band-aid, rubbing the surface. “Do you need clothes?”

Her face immediately flushes at the suggestion but she casts a glance down at the condition of her current clothing, then back at him. He nods before standing, gesturing for her to follow as he heads for the main bedroom – technically his, not that he slept in it anyway. She follows, but stops in the doorway, watching as he shuffled through his dressers and closer – removing one of his t-shirts and a pair of sweats. He holds them out to her and she slowly takes them. He sees a visible question in her eyes but before she can even ask, he’s answering.

“You can change in the bathroom or the guestroom. Whichever you like.” He says, moving past her to show her to the guest room. She shuffles slowly behind him, so quiet he barely hears her and he realizes then he doesn’t know her name, opting for the moment to refer to her as Mouse. He leads her to the guest bedroom, just down from the main bedroom, and opens the door.

It’s a small, neat and tidy room with a full-sized bed in the center, it’s sheets neatly made and minimalist with a single pillow at the top. There’s a single shelf against the wall across from the bed and the window is shut and locked, the sheer curtains pulled back a bit illuminating the rain storm outside. He gestures for her to enter and steps to the side so she doesn’t feel threatened.

“Make yourself at home.” He says, nodding before turning to the living room. She closed the door behind her, crossed the room and shut the sheer curtains as she set the clothes on the neat bed. Slowly, she peeled her wet clothing off and put the dry ones on. The clothes drowned her more than a little, Gibbs being at least 9 inches taller than her but they’re extremely comfortable.

As she waddles over to the door after hanging her clothes in the closet, she lifts the collar of the shirt and sniffs it, smiling a little. It was musky, like a campfire mixed with bourbon and...gun cleaner? Definitely a gun-cleaner. Still, it’s oddly reassuring and it makes her feel at home as she steps out into the hallway, barefoot, padding into the living room.

He turns, finding her standing in the doorway, looking utterly exhausted. He smiled a little as he sat down, holding his mug of coffee. She shuffled over, taking a seat on the couch, although a bit more relaxed this time. She’s sinking into the cushion, visibly relaxed.

“You have a name?” He asks, though he notices that her eyes are drooping.

“Eleanor.” She mumbles. “Friends call me Eli or Ellie.”

“Get some rest, Eli.”


	2. Closer

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eli gets a little intoxicated and they get to know each other a bit better.

She’d passed out on the couch shortly after that. Initially, he’d thought about leaving her there, but deciding that she would wake up with a sore neck, he carried her to the guest bed and covered her up. He worked on his boat for a few hours, thinking on what he was going to do before climbing back up and sleeping on the couch. Normally, he didn’t lock his door but with his night visitor, he opted to lock it for that night. He awoke the next morning with the sun filtering in through the window above the couch and set to making breakfast, something he didn’t normally do, but he was sure she’d be hungry.

He didn’t go too far out, just some eggs and hashbrowns and it wasn’t long before she emerged from the guest bedroom, rubbing her eyes. He put a mug of coffee in her hands, cream already inside it, and he definitely didn’t miss the sleepy smile that came to her lips and the soft murmur of _thanks_ that tumbled from her lips. She looks better – her hair is dry and his shirt is falling off of her shoulder, but he doesn’t linger on the exposed skin. It’s obvious she slept well and he wonders when it was she last slept well.

“Good mornin’.” He says, plating some eggs and hashbrowns for her, setting it down on the table. She sits down in front of it and he hands her a fork, making sure she starts eating before turning back to cooking. He finishes his own, plates it and then sits across from her, his own mug beside him. He starts to eat, though studies her as he does so.

She eats somewhat quickly and he can tell she probably hasn’t eaten since before yesterday at least and he makes a mental note of this. They eat in silence aside from chewing and the occasional sip of coffee.

“Are you headed to work soon?” She asks.

“Yes.” He answers. Truthfully, he would’ve been ready by now but he was focused on fixing her food that he hadn’t gotten ready yet. He wasn’t too worried – it still was pretty early and he had plenty of time. “You can use the shower.”

“Are you sure?” She asks, stopping eating to frown. He waves dismissively and she nods slowly. “Okay…”

“I washed and dried your clothes.” He says and she flushes again, coughing a bit. “They’re on your bed.”

“Uh, thanks…” She sets her mug down, swallowing thickly. “Is there anything I can do to repay you?”

“Yeah...take care of yourself.” He says, resuming eating.

* * *

“Are you sure this isn’t out of your way?” She asks as he shuts the door to his home, car keys in one hand. He opens the door to the Dodge Charger, unlocking the other side and getting in. She quickly gets in the other side, buckling herself immediately before looking over at him. He doesn’t buckle, instead starting the car and glancing behind him briefly before starting to back out of the driveway. “S-shouldn’t you buckle?” She asks.

He pauses, briefly, gives her a look, chuckles and then stops the car, putting it back in park so he can buckle. He then resumes backing out of the driveway, glancing around for anyone popping up out of nowhere (this happened to him frequently in parking lots).

“So where am I taking you?” He asks once they start getting down the road. She looks out the window, watching as the houses and scenery pass by.

“Uh, Crescent Pointe in Stafford.” She replies, though there’s apprehension in her voice again. No doubt because of the events the night prior which they still hadn’t discussed, not that it was his business anyway.

“Your place or a friend’s?” He asks as they get close to I-95.

“Uh, mine, sort-of.” She says, still looking out the window. “It’s...shared.”

“With the same person who gave you that shiner?” He asks, simply. She doesn’t answer, again, but in doing so, she gives him all the information he needs. “Boyfriend?”

“Not anymore.” She answers. “Leaving.”

“Need an escort?” He asks nonchalantly and truthfully, he’s getting way too deep into this. He wasn’t an officer and he barely knew this woman but he wanted to help her and he saw no real reason not to.

“It wouldn’t be unwelcome.” She says, sighing and looking down at her lap. “Dunno how to repay you still.”

“Like I said, take care of yourself.”

It was about ten minutes to her place – normally it would be fifteen but he sped a little. She pointed out her apartment and he parked in front of it, but she didn’t get out. He looked over at her, noticing she was chewing on her lip and fidgeting with the edge of her sleeve.

“What you scared of?” He asks.

“Nothing. It’s just...he’ll be mad, ‘y know.” She says softly, running a hand through her hair.

“Yeah. And?”

“Well and...truthfully...I...I don’t have anywhere to go. Maybe I should just stay.”

He frowns and considers for a moment, then makes an executive decision. One he’ll likely regret but in that moment, he doesn’t.

“I have a guest bedroom. As long as you don’t mind the work hours and strong coffee, it’s yours.”

She turns to him, visibly shocked and struggles to say something but they’re interrupted by the arrival of her ex-boyfriend. He emerges from the apartment, slamming the door and immediately sees her in the passenger seat, marching over. She gets out and Gibbs follows suit, noting his body language to be dangerous. The guy was intoxicated or high, likely high and he’d already laid hands on her. Gibbs wouldn’t let it happen again.

“The fuck you been, Eli?” He demands of her, striding up to her with a hand held out to grab her. Gibbs steps between, calm as ever and becomes like a stone wall between the two. The kid stumbles back, taken off-guard and shoots a menacing glare at Eli behind him. “The fuck is this?”

“Listen, I just...I’m just here to-”

“To get her stuff. Move out of the way. NCIS.” He interrupts her, frowning deeply in disapproval. He’s analyzing the kid quickly, taking in his body language and he can tell he doesn’t have a weapon but that doesn’t mean he won’t start swinging his fists with how high he is. He swipes at his nose and steps back, hands in the air, and Gibbs walks behind her as she enters the apartment.

It’s utterly trashed, save for a few nice things that she’s picking up and putting into a trash bag, not that he’s surprised by that at all. He follows her into the bedroom, continually glancing behind them to make sure the ex-boyfriend didn’t follow and watches over her as she takes most of the clothes out of the closet and tosses them into the bag.

“Uhm, that’s it.” She says, tying it off and going to lift it.

“You sure?” He asks. She nods and he grabs the bag, lifting it and nods for her to go ahead of him. She exits, though avoiding her ex who is still standing outside and rushes to the car as Gibbs comes out carrying the bag. The kid stops him, waving him over. Reluctantly, Gibbs stops and listens to what he has to say.

“I dunno what’s going on between you two but uh, listen, she’s...she’s fucking crazy and s-she’s fucking loose, okay? Stick your dick in crazy, it falls off.” The second the words comes out of his mouth, a rage rose within Gibbs and it takes everything he has not to punch him. Still, he controls himself. He makes a mental note to call local PD later. He’s sure he saw some illegal drugs inside.

He doesn’t answer, walking over to the vehicle and placing her stuff in the backseat before driving out of there quickly, nearly burning rubber in the process. They get back on the highway and it’s silent again – him focusing on driving and her fidgeting with her sleeve.

“I-I’m sorry.” She says suddenly.

“Rule #6: Never say you’re sorry.” He says and she is visibly confused.

“I’m sorry, what?” He glances at her. “I-I mean, what?”

“That’s Rule #6.”

“What are the others?”

“You’ll learn.”

* * *

“Gibbs is late...why do you think that is?” DiNozzo suddenly asked as he reclined in his chair, borderline falling. Ziva sighed from across from him, although she was a little curious too. “Could it be...a woman?”

“Gibbs? With a woman? You’re joking, right?” McGee replied, glancing up from his computer.

“I mean...he’s old, not dead.” DiNozzo pondered, tossing a ball into the air.

“We got a case?” The ominous voice of Gibbs interrupts the discussion as he enters the bullpen, coffee in hand and heads immediately to his desk. DiNozzo nearly falls out of his chair, McGee sputters to reply while Ziva smirks at the display of her two immature male colleagues.

“U-uh, yes!” McGee brings up the info on the screen while Gibbs takes it in, sipping his coffee slowly. He gives out his usual orders as they split to go inspect the crime scene, already heading for the elevator.

“Boss! Uh, so, my car is in the shop right now.” DiNozzo interrupts and Gibbs stops mid-stride to the elevator.

“So ride with McGee! Ziva, with me.” Gibbs waves dismissively before continuing to the elevator. Ziva sped after him, chuckling in DiNozzo’s direction. She barely made it in time and the doors shut quickly behind her. She looked Gibbs up and down in her peripheral and he sighed.

“What?” He demanded impatiently.

“Nothing. Just...you’re different today.” She shrugs.

Gibbs ignores her and the elevator opens to the parking garage and he’s walking _fast_ like he always does. She keeps up, though pausing when she sees into his backseat. She doesn’t mention it at first, waiting until the car is started and they’re leaving the garage.

“ _Why_ do you have a woman’s clothes in your backseat?” She asks, almost innocently. Gibbs freezes, almost as if he forgot it was there but relaxes immediately and shrugs.

“Why is everyone asking so many questions today?” He retorts.

She smirks while thinking to herself. _Gibbs has a lady_. She wasn’t sure if she should tell Tony though because it’d only make his ego bigger.

* * *

It was _many_ hours later when he finally got home and he lingered on the doorstep briefly, hoping that it hadn’t all been a con and he’d been robbed. Even if he was, there wasn’t anything much of value in his house anyway. He opens the door and enters, finding no immediate sign of her. He frowns, tossing his keys on the coffee table.

_BEEP! BEEP! BEEP!_

The fire alarm interrupts his thoughts and he hears some yelling. He runs into the kitchen, finding her pulling a hot pan out of the oven using oven mitts, though the mitt slips down at the last minute and her fingers touch the pan. Before he can warn her, she yelps and the pan drops and he can only watch as what seems to be spaghetti splatters everywhere – all over his front, her front and most of his kitchen.

“Oh my god! I-I’m so sorry!” She says, though realizes her mistake when he looks at her. He chuckles, unable to deny the pure hilarity of the moment as he takes his gun off and sets it aside. She bends down to start cleaning it up but he stops her, grabbing her hand that she burned, noticing it’s already getting red.

“C’mon.” He pulls her up gently and over to the sink, turning the cold water on and putting her hand beneath it. She hisses but allows it. His fingers run over hers, making sure that the cold water gets into the burnt skin. The action is surprisingly intimate, though he doesn’t realize until after he’s done it. “What were you makin’?”

“Uh, baked spaghetti. Thought it was the least I could do to pay you back.” She says as he turns the faucet off and grabs a towel, patting her hand dry. She gestures to the mess of the kitchen. “You can see how that went.”

He laughs, turning back to the mess and starting to clean it up.

“Uh, how about take-out?” She offers. He shrugs.

* * *

“Okay, so, I have one question.” She says, gliding her fingers along the bones of the boat. The radio plays softer than usual in the background and they’ve both had more than a little to drink, though he seems to be taking it better than her. He rolls his eyes at her, continuing to sand the wood.

“Is it ‘how do you get it out of here’?” He asks and she appears beside him, gasping.

“How did you know?! Are you psychic?” _Definitely_ more drunk than him, he decides, stopping in his ministrations to watch her. There were a lot of dangerous tools down here after all. Not the best place to be stumbling around drunk.

She stands beside him, her eyes are a little bloodshot and glassy and she was swaying a little. She’d pulled her hair back into a loose bun, though the hair was now falling a bit loose and she was once again in his shirt, the shoulder dangling off. She wipes a little at her eyes and she leans on the boat as he makes a mental note to cut her off.

“You’re kind of mysterious, ‘y know.” She continues, placing her palms flat on the ribcage of the boat and leaning her chin on it. He raises his eyebrows but doesn’t say anything. “Jethro Gibbs.”

“Eli.” He says back, though he realizes he doesn’t know her last name. Not that it matters.

“Richards.” She says. “Eleanor Richards.”

“Okay, Eleanor Richards.”

“So you’re…” She hiccups, “NCIS, huh? What’s that like?”

He shrugs. She sighs.

“I am a _‘Customer Service Representative’_.” She mocks the phrase as she says it.

“Job’s a job.” He replies.

“Hm, true.” She leaves her spot beside him and starts to wander around, though he keeps a close eye on her. “How _old_ are you?” She asks suddenly and he suppresses any insult.

“52.” He answers and she gapes visibly. “How _old_ did you think I was?”

“Dunno. Like, 40s.” She stares at the ceiling for a minute, getting lost in something there before looking back at him. “’m 25.”

He nods his head, but again, doesn’t say anything as she rounds the boat, coming up on his right. She trips on something on the floor and he stands, catching her just barely before she falls. Her hands clasp around his arms and her face is buried in his chest. He rolls his eyes. _Drunkards_.

“Time for bed.” He says, lifting her to her feet and starting to move her towards the stairs.

“Noooooo! Not yet!” She whines, but he easily gets her up the stairs and she doesn’t resist the rest of the way. Once inside the guest bedroom, he starts helping her into bed, knowing she likely won’t be able to make it herself. She looks up at him as he places her in it, kneeling to lift her legs into the bed. “Trying to get me in bed already, _Jethro_?”

He rolls his eyes, once again thinking _drunkards_.

“Get some sleep, kid.”


End file.
